


fault, failure, guilt

by forcepair



Series: all was well [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parenting, Boggarts, Book 3: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Family Issues, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mirror of Erised, One-Sided Attraction, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27540013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forcepair/pseuds/forcepair
Summary: He shows you of shapeshifting non-beings taking in the form of your worst fear and an enchanted mirror that reflects your heart’s deepest desires.However, your Boggart also happens to be what the Mirror of Erised shows you: him — your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.
Relationships: Remus Lupin & Reader, Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin/Reader
Series: all was well [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1357618
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39





	fault, failure, guilt

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the very long wait since being clinically depressed is a fantastic rollercoaster trip, but here it is! This fanfiction is actually a form of closure for getting attached to one of my teachers at the time I started writing this. For those people who are desperately attached to their "home," this one is for you.
> 
> (And, please support me on Ko-fi! heythereflyboy)

Wise people believe you don't know what you've got until it's gone. Truth is, you knew all along what you had what others didn't. It just never came across your mind you'd actually lose him. It's all your fault, in the first place.

It took you six years to understand the difference between wholly independent from excruciatingly stubborn.

Perhaps, the most terrible mistake you have done in your entire existence was going out of the compartment to investigate why on earth the express train had stopped when you're nowhere near Hogwarts.

Someone had told you before that often do Gryffindor bravery is equal to sheer stupidity, and you wished you have taken it into the heart.

No one labeled you as "mental" for attempting to duel a dementor, which in fact you have absolutely zero knowledge of. The gold and red crest on your uniform is a perfect excuse for pitiful stupidity. Sure, the founder of your house could have been grinning at your audaciousness, but the injury in your wrist won't appease the looming shame inside of you.

You didn't trust anyone with a wand persuading you they'll give you first aid since the incident with Lockhart and Harry Potter last year. So, when someone claiming to be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher to be of help to a broken bone resonated awfully too much, you are in the perfect state of mind to reject his offer, unless his name happened to be Minerva _bloody_ McGonagall.

The new Defence teacher's name is Remus Lupin, and he could use a trip to Madam Malkin's. He looked like he fought off the Whomping Willow, looking at his clothes carefully darned and patched in places odd enough to be worn and tore. It's a good thing he's excellent in sewing, otherwise, he could have been mistaken for a very tall scruffy-looking house elf.

At least, you accepted the big chunk of chocolate from him that tastes of warm heavenly indulgence that makes your toes curl in delight. You found out, later in your first weekend visit to Hogsmeade, he had given you a piece of Honeydukes's best candy.

The hour you arrive in the castle, you and Harry have been whisked away to the dimly-lit yet welcoming office of Professor McGonagall. For some reason you won't poke your nose in, thank you very much (You don't want a repeat of the incident wherein one of your classmates tried to confront her), Hermione Granger is there, so you try your best to ignore her existence temporarily.

You aren't surprised at all when McGonagall already knew of yours and Harry's individual fiascos with the dementor because Lupin sent an owl ahead to inform her as head of Gryffindor house, especially for your case because you deliberately refused to be healed by a teacher.

No later than a second, Madam Pomfrey bustles in, carrying a light medical bag, takes one long cautionary look at the two of you, and sighs dejectedly. You swear to Merlin's beard, that after you explained, she mentions under her breath something about your uncanny attitude needing a _fixer-upper_.

Of course, you agree to her whole-heartedly as she works on your injury with the most conventional and magic-less method.

Your batch had the greatest number of near hatstalls, and rumor has it that you're nearly placed in Slytherin due to your fierce determination. They make your defining quality sound pleasant while the blunt version will be _uptight hardheadedness_.

"So, we've finally got a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher who knows his remedies." She taps her wand on your bad wrist and mutters, "Furula." As the conjured bandages do their task, the throbbing soreness brings back a memory from earlier.

Suddenly, you remember the rich, saccharine taste of chocolate on your tongue.

You want to ask if the legality of using a Time-Turner includes correcting one's past mistake of turning down a simple act of kindness.

* * *

It's Thursday, and you still have the blasted bandages and shoulder sling upon Madam Pomfrey's insistence. No matter how much you protested that you're well and ready enough to wrestle a centaur, she gave you a firm, "No." Then, made you sit down before renewing the bandages.

The injury could have been less of a pain in your arse if it weren't for Malfoy pulling the victim-card stunt and showing up in double Potions with his own shoulder sling.

Malfoy calls you by your surname with obvious contempt. Begrudgingly, you turn to him, hand hovering on your wand hidden in your robes. "Who wore it better?" He throws you a wink when he passes. You want to claw out that smug look on his face before casting him a head-swelling hex to make his metaphorical large head a reality.

Everything goes south after lunch, realizing you have forgotten your wand back in the Potions classroom in the Dungeons. And, you really have to remember that when you're a great distance there from the Great Hall, not to mention you have a multitude of heavy hardbound textbooks tucked under your good arm.

Earlier, you thought it's a clever way to bring all your textbooks for every class this day, rather than going up and down the seventh floor, as an arm injury makes even the flattest surface turn into an obstacle course when traveling throughout the castle in between periods.

At this rate, you wish you have the common sense even a Muggle would have.

The next period is Defence Against the Dark Arts in Classroom 3C which is on the third floor's Serpentine Corridor. You're barely halfway through the first flight of stairs since lunch ended.

It takes a lot of energy to restrain yourself from letting out an ungodly hour inside the Hall.

The trip is a clumsy beeline of avoiding potential chivalry offered for you. You lose count on how much you have replied "No, thank you-s" that day through gritted teeth, arranging the helpless stack of textbooks in one arm and ignoring the numbing feeling coursing through your injured wrist. By the time you reach the first landing, there's a swell of victory in you as a bead of sweat trickle down your forehead until it becomes short-lived when someone accidentally shoulders you hard, making you drop everything on the floor.

"Do keep up!" You heard a familiar voice utter your surname in disdain somewhere the stairs above you, accompanied by howls of laughter you know very well from that bleeding house.

_Malfoy_.

So much for cleverness.

Your face turns a tad hotter like a brand is being seared through your cheeks. Though there aren't many students who have witnessed your unfortunate encounter with Slytherin, your pride is roaring inside your ears to _move now, you absolute tosser_.

Pride makes you move in haste to an extent an injury allows in retrieving discarded belongings, and you lash out the first, a Hufflepuff you suppose, attempting to help you. You aren't in the most delightful condition to accept sympathy when you don't want anything but to let the earth swallow you whole.

"I'm fine, _please_ go away!" you snap hurriedly as the person tries to touch your copy of _The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts_ , not considering who the bloody hell they are until you catch a glimpse of their scarred, calloused hand. That hand, all too familiar to you.

"Please, do allow me."

Much to your immense shock and multiplied shame, Professor Lupin sighs, the action making him twice older than he already is, while he picks up the textbook nevertheless. You just rejected the help of a teacher. Twice. How brilliant of you.

"Professor!" you exclaim, more ashamed of yourself than you've ever been in your entire life. "I-I didn't mean—"

"It's alright." He straightens up, carrying seven textbooks and his own tattered briefcase underneath everything. It's a wonder how he can manage to do all of that, in spite of looking weaker than a feather. "People who are used to be pushed around can be cruel to the one who shows them kindness."

You try to argue back that mere house rivalry does not make you inferior to them, but nothing worthy of saving grace comes out of your mouth, so you settled with a grim expression and desolately thanking him.

"You see," he continues when the two of you have moved away from the path. "I have a dear friend of mine, back when I was a student like you, who had a friend who has been, well, _frequently_ been treated poorly by a rival house. Could say that left a lasting impression."

Ah, that's probably why he's helping you. His gracious act is simply out because of taking a page from memory lane.

You cannot help but be furious because of that. If he wasn't a teacher, you might have talked back at him and prance your merry way to class even without his help, even if it's much to your disadvantage.

He says your name gently, withdrawing you out from your spiteful thoughts. "Now, tell me, why do you have all your seven books being carried all around Hogwarts?"

Your lips curl up with the absence of gusto as you lazily gesture to your shoulder sling.

"Ah, oh right. Been there before. You know, the Levitation Charm proved to be helpful. Say, why don't you utilize —"

"I left my wand," you interrupt using the dignity left in your voice, then, to sound polite, adding, " _Professor_ , in Potions class." First and foremost, shouldn't Defence class with him be starting in less than five minutes? You're just one in a hundred of his students, and he's risking to waste even a sliver of time to be a gentleman to you. Now that you remember, you are very much aware that people might be staring. "Uh, may I have my books back _now,_ please?"

You could break the world's record on the greatest number of uses for the word "please" if that is all it takes to excuse you from this embarrassment.

Professor Lupin doesn't give them _all_ back. In fact, he asks what has been already used and returns those instead, then he continues to hold the ones you'll be needing the rest of the afternoon. "Now, why don't you return them to your dorm and I'll hold this for you in meantime," he taps on one of your textbook's spine, "Don't worry about becoming late, you'll be excused after all."

The thought of the class' piercing gaze at you walking in tardy, like they have witnessed you shagging a rotting corpse. No, you rather have your other arm dislocated than giving the Slytherins another reason to make your life a living hell. 

"I wasn't making a request," he says before you're about to argue. "You'll be needing your wand, and I believe Professor Snape's in the staff room in this time of day." Then, he gently pushes you to the staircase leading to the Gryffindor House before informing you, to your relief, that this day's session will be held in the staff room.

* * *

"You're late," Snape says darkly just as he shuts the door behind him with a loud snap that echoes along the corridor.

You refuse to let him stare you down as if you aren't worthy enough to be dirt on his shoes, so you set him with a glare. "Professor Lupin gave me permission, _sir_."

"Very wonderful of Lupin to do so. Already playing favorites early in the year? Fascinating." By his icy cool tone, you doubt that he can be fascinated by anything associated with the Defence teacher, given that Snape has been sending dirty looks at Lupin since Start-of-Term Feast. Snape then produced a wand from his robes, making you step back out of reflex from the thought that he might throw a hex at you. He arches his eyebrows. "Do you honestly believe that I will attack you in broad daylight?"

You reach out to retrieve your wand, then Snape pulls it away from you further. "Five points from Gryffindor," he snarls, making your face pink, "For your _astounding_ irresponsibility. Oh, pardon. I didn't mean to use a multi-syllabic word," he says with a smirk. He returns your wand without missing a beat and stalks off, his dark robes billowing behind him. 

When you enter the staff room, Lupin is already starting the class with a convulsing old wardrobe behind him. Today's practical lesson in Defence Against the Dark Arts is having the class dealing with a Boggart individually, and quite questionable, he picks Neville Longbottom to face it first, and miraculously, he successfully pulls it off by turning Boggart-Snape into his grandma's whimsical fashion.

Soon, the staff room is filled with whip-crack noises and strong spell-casting amidst the jovial laughter whenever someone's worst fear is transformed into something humorous. It's a rarity that classes are actually fun here in Hogwarts, save for Flying class with Madam Hooch (though that's only for first-years), that you can't help be also amused even how shallow the comedy is.

Somehow, your eyes dart past the crowd and land on Lupin, casually leaning on a low armchair while beaming brightly; there's a twinkle in his eyes that you swear its underlying mischief, youthful and vivacious. For a while, at that moment, he's making your heart clench in such a way it leaves you in awe that he, no matter how ridiculous this may seem, is drawing you in. That you want to see more of his carefree mirth and know how he looks like when the sunlight frames his figure in the right places. It's mental in a sense that you know that it's only you that's feeling this way, though you want to—

Your breath hitches in your throat upon realizing: you're starting to fancy Professor Lupin. Coming into terms with it, however, leaves you extremely vexed at yourself because you can't shake away that thought, and it's making you so vulnerable—the feeling you _loathe_ the most—you forget how to make the world return to its axis. The emotion cannot cease bubbling higher and further, you fear it might spread out and burst in a heartbeat.

You are vaguely aware that it's supposedly your turn, but someone calls your name and there's another _crack!,_ Ron Weasley's legless Boggart-spider morphs into something else. Raising your wand tentatively, you brace yourself for whatever the Boggart will show you, but the result won't guarantee that you are prepared for this.

There are collective gasps from those behind you, erasing whatever joy that has been in the staff room. Still, you clutch your wand valiantly in spite that you feel you're already falling apart. The happiness on Lupin's face completely vanishes.

The Boggart assumes the form of Lupin, a hundredfold healthier and more charming than the real one who's now frantically looking over the class' stunned expression. Hands shoved in the pockets, it saunters towards you with a smirk, emphasizing that child-like gleam in its eyes transfixed to you, and only you. Your heart soars in the sky and hurls out of the window when it grins at you the way you want Lupin to do to you. You think you just died inside a thousand times all over. Nevertheless, you raise your wand and cast, " _Riddikulus_!"

Boggart-Lupin shifts into Snape's dark robes and greasy hair while donning Trelawney's insanely thick glasses.

Nobody laughs. Silence goes on for an excruciating length until Harry steps forward and pats you on the shoulder apologetically.

You don't even dare yourself to look at Lupin again.

* * *

After the class was dismissed, Malfoy rounds at you from behind, forcing you to stop from your tracks. "Lupin? Professor _a-house-elf-is-fancier-than-me_ Lupin?" he asks incredulously. His eyes glitter in triumph over the sweet discovery he can use to the fullest against you.

Before you can even retort, Ron hurriedly grabs your good arm and makes you turn back to your path. "Sod off, Malfoy!" Then, he whispers in your ear, "Pay that bloody git no mind."

"Oh, yeah, Weasel boy?" Malfoy taunts, sizing up Ron. His cronies back him up, mirroring the haughty aura that their self-proclaimed pureblood leader exudes. "Why don't you go back in your rickety ol' beaver dam with your acromantulas, you no good Potter lover."

"Ron." Then, Hermione looks at you and says your name warily. "Teachers could be here soon!"

Great, Gryffindor's agitating perpetual voice of reason tries to dispel the growing argument.

Hermione manhandles Ron away from the crowd.

But you ignore her. This is between you and Malfoy, and you won't let him win. You march forward, teeth bared and a fist clenched. "Don't be so daft," you fire back. "At least my Boggart isn't a Death-Eater!"

Malfoy's Boggart was his father.

The truth must have sealed the deal because Malfoy beelines towards you in a thunder-like speed.

"Why you filthy—"

A hand comes up and pulls you forward. His knuckles are blaring white when they curl into your school robes, hard, that you have to tilt your head slightly as he brings you dangerously close to him. There are stinging lines of pain shooting through your injured wrist when the shoulder sling has been aggravated by the motion. You don't even have the time to mask the wince on your face.

"Mr. Malfoy," comes Lupin's stern voice.

Instantly, Malfoy's lips shut in a hard line, but you know what he’s going to say next. _Blood traitor_. His grip falters for a moment, just for a moment.

Everyone spins on their heels to see Professor Lupin nonchalantly leaning against the threshold of the staff room, holding your textbooks. You have been immensely flustered earlier that you have forgotten to retrieve them from him. Much to your chagrin, this means you have to face him once more regardless of your crippling pride.

"I believe you should ought to know that whatever happens in my class, stays in the class, yes?" he admonishes. "Am I making myself clear?"

Malfoy doesn't glance at the Defence teacher. He continues glaring at you with such viciousness he looks just like his father now. "My father shall be hearing about what you have said." Then, he shoves you away and storms off, along with the other Slytherins who babbled something vile against you under their breaths, making sure they brush their shoulders enough to make you stumble around.

When all the tension has been dampened and your fellow Gryffindors have dispersed, Lupin turns to you with a soft expression. "You'll be needing these," he says as he presents your textbooks in front of you.

Your face heats up upon remembering that charming smile he wore, now gone all thanks to your Boggart. Although, you want to be angry at him. You could have taken care of Draco Malfoy perfectly all by yourself without his bleeding help. The callous treatment you have been receiving will be, no doubt, multiplied dramatically after your association with Professor Lupin.

Still, out of respect since he's still your teacher, you mutter, "Thank you, sir." You try not to dwell on the observation of his sinewy fingers as he returns your textbooks carefully one by one in your recently emptied satchel. Turning back to the corridor, you leave without much ado. Lupin must be saying something behind you, but you continue onwards.

You don't look back and drain the sounds from your ears. Not even when he tried to tell you something to ease the awkwardness that happened in his class.

* * *

You are called, once again, to McGonagall's office that night. This time, neither with bandages nor further injuries. Lucky you... or so you think.

"How is your arm?"

"Healing excellently, Professor."

A painfully long pause.

"Do you have the slightest idea why you are here tonight?" she asks. You can't see the manner she's looking at you right now. The golden glow of the firelight from the hearth glares on the surface of her square spectacles.

"No, Professor," you say with a shake of your head.

"Among other things, is there anything you wish to tell me?" There is something you want to ask her, or even tell her, but you do not have the willpower to do so. Whatever charm, jinx, or hex McGonagall might be pulling at you to confess a secret that even you yourself do not know of, it’s working and it’s tempting.

Blinking, you affirm with a nod nevertheless. Currently nervous is an understatement at this rate. You know that deep within you, you haven't done anything to warrant her attention during her class. If this is about Snape docking points from Gryffindor, then why will it resort to a meeting when McGonagall could have written in the letter, she sent you that it's about _disciplinary action_ , not _a_ _matter of consequences_. Surely, the verbal spar you had with Draco Malfoy doesn't count, does it?

"Is that your final answer?"

"... Yes, Professor," you reply, unsure of yourself.

McGonagall accepts it satisfactorily, nevertheless. "Very well, then.” She pushes up her spectacles, and it glints warmly from the silver moonlight. “I was informed of your performance during your practical test with Professor Lupin."

Like a punctured balloon, you deflate whilst your face blanches. You are severely unprepared for this confrontation. How can you explain something when you don't even know how to explain it? "Is this about the Boggart?"

"This _is_ about the Boggart," she confirms crisply. "It has greatly perturbed not only your professor and I but also the headmaster as well."

"Oh," is all you can manage at the moment. Of course, the whole Hogwarts staff will be baffled on the fact that one of their students' worst fear is a teacher, especially when Lupin is recently new. After all, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher post is cursed, or so the older students believe. Above all things, Professor Dumbledore has been informed of this.

Right now, you wish you have died back in the train rather than facing this school year.

"Has Professor Lupin done anything _inappropriately_ back in the Hogwarts Express?" says McGonagall carefully, yet her mouth twitches. Clearly, she’s more than embarrassed than you are.

Horrified by the insinuation, you blush furiously. "No!"

"Has he done something harmful to you then?"

"All he did is to be kind to me, that's all, Professor," you say honestly, remembering his calloused hands on your textbooks. The red hue on your cheeks deepens at the memory.

"Were you thinking of him when facing the Boggart, then?"

Your heart leaps out of your chest. "Professor, by heart, I don't know why the Boggart thinks I fear Lupin. Surely, there's a mistake, isn't there?"

McGonagall bows her head slightly. Her eyebrows furrow behind her spectacles as she thinks thoroughly. "Boggarts, by nature, are knowledgeable of one's deepest, darkest fears. There is no room for errors for their abilities."

"Professor, is it possible that Boggarts predict the future? That they know what will the person fear the most?"

"I'm afraid not," she says.

Irritation over your own cluelessness drops your composure. Your bottled-up emotions spill forth like a broken dam. "I don't understand all of this!" You fail to hold back the frustration in your voice. Your fingers twist the hem of your robes tightly. "Lupin has been an excellent teacher. It's unlikely for him to hurt even a fly, so I don't get it why on earth is he my Boggart."

McGonagall's lips turn paper-thin as if your words personally hexed her. The volume of her voice has been lowered; you think for a moment that she's about to tell you the secrets of Hogwarts. "Do you know anything about Professor Lupin's afflictions?"

You pause, slowly blinking. "Why yes... He said before that he has a chronic illness that will make him miss classes."

"I swear to you that whatever information you know, however bizarre it may be, I certainly would like to hear it." McGonagall's tone is ominous.

There is something _really_ going on with the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. You hope it's a secret that won't pose a threat to Hogwarts, knowing the cursed history of that teaching post.

You give her a firm nod. "Of course. I promise."

"Very well, then. That's is all I need to know from you, _for now_." You swear that McGonagall's shoulders slacken a bit, you aren't sure why, but maybe it's purely coincidental. Before she dismisses you, she says, "Professor Lupin wants to have tea with you in his office… If you have the time, of course."

It takes barely a minute for you to mull over the invitation as you head back to the Common Room. Though, the enigma in her statements leaves you wondering.

Who is Remus Lupin behind the educator's facade?

* * *

In the midst of the deserted corridor leading back to the Common Room, you stop on your tracks to deliberate better. The decision-making is starting to rival the motion of a pendulum.

_Meet Lupin or go back to bed?_

_Meet Lupin._

_Go to bed._

_Lupin?_

_Bed?_

Much to your surprise, you find yourself sitting in Lupin's office, nursing an overmilked, but under-sugared blueberry tea. Earlier, on your way to his office, you have to make a very far detour just to ignore Mrs. Norris so Filch won't catch you and interrogate why do you need to see Lupin.

You don't want to raise any more suspicion regarding you and Lupin after the Boggart incident. So, what you have to do now is to accept the invitation as an apology for your Boggart and let life flow by as normal as a Hogwarts student life can be.

He has a smile that reaches in his eyes whenever you peer at him from behind the teacup, so you make it a diligent task to hide the inadvertently shared smile by sipping the wine-colored liquid scalding in your mouth enough to scorch your tongue and throat. There is a concert hall housed inside your chest, apparently.

"I'm glad you're here despite the hour," he finally says after a mutual silence.

"I was meaning to ask you, Professor, if you happen to know how to explain why my Boggart," you bristle, the news is foreign in your tongue, "Is you, Professor."

The mood instantly shifts. Lupin sets down his teacup on its saucer. "How do you mean?" he asks.

"Well, I am at lost on why it was you. I was hoping for somebody else..."

"Perhaps, I remind you of them." His voice is filled with lingering darkness of secrecy. Somehow, even unintentionally, you have wounded him. 

"Oh, no, no," you interject fast. Your Defence teacher is far from those who have hurt you. He will never surmount the fear they hammered in your head. "Believe me, you are far too kind, unlike my p —" Instincts override your senses, and take a clumsy sip to mask out the words, but not swallowing as you allow the tea to dull your tongue from speaking further.

"Yes?" he urges further, yet uncommonly gentle in manner.

You doubt for a while if he's trustworthy enough to share the darkness that lurks behind the door of your home. What are the odds of your family's background spreading all over Hogwarts? He's merely Lupin through and through. He'll come and go like the Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers before him.

"My parents are Death-Eaters," you confess after a hard swallow, then taking another to pretend indifference. You pray he'll start avoiding you, an offspring of Death Eaters, and establish the professional distance more so. That he'll drop every intent on discovering your perception of him. On what is his critical flaw to deserve to be your worst fear. No more spilling of secrets under the moonlit sky. The strongest infatuation over him cannot deter you from severing your attachments to him.

There's a tiny plea of hope inside your heart that he's above judgment.

But all he does is fall silent throughout the rest of the evening. You have implied to him he's far dire than your parents. After you drain the contents of your tea, you bid him farewell and return to your dormitory.

You wish that you have gone gentle on this good night.

It takes a couple of days for both of you to recover from that memory. Eventually, the tea conversations with him in his office persist regularly as though he never knew what your parents do. Though he never voices this out, he has accepted you for you, not as a damning legacy of festering fate.

By heart, you don't have the slightest idea why you keep coming back to him.

* * *

You don't know what came over you when you visit him on a foggy Saturday morning. It seems that your feet have their own accord in terms of having the need to be near him.

Maybe it's your ridiculous notion you're the only receiving tender gaze in the privacy of his office, so you irrevocably stake your claim on such privilege. Tenderness you never knew that a man could have until you have met Lupin. Long before you have put that quality into word, you learn how to be self-centered with his kindness. You lock up all the little things he does in your heart, no matter how trivial they are. Be it those quirks and mannerisms of his, you adore everything in silent contemplation.

Maybe it's your hunger for being cherished. One way or another. You starve for the affection and approval of someone old enough to be your parent, drinking up every second you spend with him and soak up all the care he has to offer for you.

Lupin holds the fire in your heart and carries the key to your salvation. Sooner or later, maybe you'll stray far away from the dreaded path of the damned.

Even when you think it's preposterous of you to do so, still, you give yourself a little reprieve and savor the time you have with him — which you absolutely won't admit to anyone, including yourself. A large dosage of Veritaserum might do the trick.

This time the tea he gives you is peppermint, fragrantly invigorating.

You have delegated your free time researching about Boggarts in the library. Half of the reason is for the essay due next Tuesday, and the other revolves around Boggart-Lupin. After absorbing every credible material, you have come to a conclusion.

"I think the Boggarts don't show us our superficial fears," you say. "They represent our biggest fears that would lead to one's downfall in life."

Lupin beams at your obvious interest in his subject, and you breathe slow to regulate your thumping heart. He doesn't share his input throughout the conversation. He allows you to speak freely which makes it hard for your part because he really needs to stop looking at you with those soulful green eyes that can hold the mysteries of the universe.

"For example, Neville's Boggart is Snape, and Snape has been brash over Neville's weaknesses. Possibly more than his grandma could ever have. I think Snape is a representation of his biggest failure: having no chances of proving himself to be a competent wizard."

"Very good," he praises after an appreciative hum.

You're so happy right now, you can sing the sweetest ballads on mountain tops, but you feign apathy in fears of exposing too much of yourself. Not yet, not now. 

"Another is Granger's," you continue after a long drink, emptying the teacup halfway. "She sees McGonagall returning an exam she has performed mediocrely. McGonagall has given her one of her rare smiles, and Granger takes pride in that achievement by working extra effort in classes. Her fear is failure itself, and someone she looks up to acknowledges and affirms it."

"And yours?"

His question sends a bludger hitting you dab smack in the stomach. "Sorry?" Then you remember Boggart-Lupin. "Oh," you say at first, testing the waters. Lupin's asking what he represents in your life! How can you survive that without fainting?

He raises his finger in the air, then suddenly closes his mouth. "Nothing worth conversing, I'm afraid. Go on," he insists.

"You represent kindness," you blurt out, more surprised than he is. You remember you have slipped away from your broom in your first Flying class, and the adrenaline from your fall is similar to what you are feeling right now. You have put yourself in a boundless wreck of a morning. "The kindness that I have wanted from my parents. You embody them. That's why I'm afraid."

Lupin has stopped drinking. Instead, he leans forward and studies you intently.

A beat, and another. Before you ultimately unwound the knots in your heart.

"I'm afraid you'll be the only one in this world who'll give me such kindness."

_Unconditional kindness_.

_Not because he's your classmate._

_Not because of commensalism._

But you don't say those words.

Little by little, you start opening up to him. It takes some time, but you'll get there.

Little by little, you have fallen for him in your accord.

In silence.

* * *

Christmas season is your favorite school break, not because of the burst of colors and joy can be seen around the castle. It's for the reason that Hogwarts is mostly empty when the students are away with their families. Some pity you for not having the strength to come home to your parents, though you don't correct them at all. They don't have the right to the truth of your background. 

You love the transient freedom surrounded by the tranquility of loneliness.

There are days you spend holiday meals in the Great Hall with Harry because, like you, he'd rather be in his true home than to tolerate the traditional obligation of making false merriment with blood-relatives. 

Other days are spent alone either in Hogsmeade, window shopping, or in the Common Room, sleeping the seasonal glum away in the stuffy crimson couches.

The first breakfast after the students have boarded the Hogwarts Express, you cross path with Lupin on the way to the library.

"Good morning, Professor," you greet tentatively, noticing usual haggardness of his. Sometimes, there's a fleeting desire of becoming a healer so you can personally attend to his discomfort every time his chronic illness shows up.

Lupin, supported by a cane, swivels at the sound of your voice. His face instantly lights up. "Oh, hello! I was looking for you."

Your heart somersaults at the thought of him scouring the castle in hopes of finding you.

"That's fantastic!" you manage with an uncharacteristic beam, a stark comparison to your usual impassiveness.

"Come," he gingerly places a palm on your arm, "I'll show you fantastic." Lupin's grin looks like a Christmas morning.

The touch jumpstarts your heart into a new rhythm like electricity. You think your spirit left your body and ascended the heavens above. Before you can even register a response, he's already taking you away deeper into the corridor. The slow clacking of his cane on the floor keeps your mind away from the clouds then you're one gesture away from imploding when he ushers you inside an abandoned classroom.

The mere thought of being in an abandoned classroom with the best man in your life drains all senses. You don't know if you'll even fancy a sordid encounter with him. And by all means, ' _He's your bloody teacher for Merlin's sake!'_ you chastise your hormonal urges like a petulant child. ' _He won't put his job on the line for some holiday snogging with an underaged student of his_.'

Thankfully, a tall wall-like object draped with thick and dusty cloth drags you away from your reverie.

"Dumbledore has just recently moved this wonder from the dungeons. Said something about bringing the light amidst darkness sort of thing," Lupin says, as he casts a Levitating Charm on the cloth. As the cloth is cast aside somewhere across the room, an ancient ornamental mirror is revealed, glinting softly in the morning light.

"Is this..." you ask, slowly approaching the mirror careful as you'd do during your Care for Magical Creatures classes. 

Its words on the gilded frame are strangely familiar in your language, though you have never seen or heard them. You draw a slow breath, your person now fully in view of the mirror, but it reflects someone different.

You know it's _you_ , much different than you are today. The mirror reflects two figures: the prominent is an older version of you with blatant happiness that reaches your eyes. Your hand reaches out and touches the image of the other person as happy as your supposed future-self. 

"... The Mirror of Erised," you say softly, a burning emotion pierces you.

The second person looks younger without his shabby robes, deep scars, and greying hair, unlike his true counterpart. His posture is straighter, possessing high esteem you have wished he has with him at all times. His appearance is what your Boggart has shown you before.

Lupin is both your worst fear and heart's desire.

Healthier.

Happier.

Younger.

Yours.

Each word is a dagger to your heart.

In the reflection, Lupin steps towards you, encircling you in his arms, and pulls you to close to his chest. When he presses a kiss on your shoulder, you glance behind to see if this is really happening. If this isn't a fantasy anymore. That the reflection is indeed a reality and not the works of your imagination.

Except he isn't.

The real Lupin stands a few feet away from you to give you and your revelation a moment. He is watching you from afar, observing the moment unwind. The difference between the reflection and him is striking. It makes you realize the impossibility of your apparent desire. Being with him is too good to be true.

Clenching your fists and steadying your breaths, your heart plummets in the depths of your despair. "Why are you showing me this, Professor?" you ask. You're thankful your voice didn't waver and give out much of your brooding.

"Just my version of an early Christmas gift," he says.

You hum in understanding, almost bitter. The prejudice against the holiday has preoccupied you so much, you have forgotten to buy him one. Now here he is, presenting you an exclusive exposure to one of the most magical objects in the wizarding world, and your first reaction is to cry.

"What is it?" asks Lupin, coming closer upon noticing you unsatisfied.

You shake your head, giving him a wry smile. "Nothing, just _surprised_ , that's all."

You're adamant about keeping _this_ a secret. 

"Perhaps next time, Professor."

It isn't a promise.

* * *

You fail to say farewell when he resigned.

The fourth year in Hogwarts moved painfully slow.

Upon seeing Cedric Diggory’s body sprawling against the grass, dead, something snaps inside of you.

While the world was grieving the hour of Cedric’s death, Malfoy finds you sobbing in a corner in a corridor you don’t even bother to know.

He sits beside you silently. You fail to capture the sight of a tear slowly rolling down his marble-like skin in a patch of moonlight.

You never spoke of this moment to him. Or to anybody else.

* * *

Rainy season comes early, unforgiving and rigid in the streets of Knockturn Alley. You weave through the sea of dark umbrellas and cloaks of wizards and witches alike, wearing only your night things drenched in the non-stop downpour. The cobblestoned roads graze your bare feet, still, you sprint onwards with no particular direction nor destination. Just one goal: go as far as you can.

Your face is streaking with hot tears and icy raindrops, your vision warped by hazy mists and glowing lampposts. The harsh torrent is growing intense as you round the streets and journey deeper into the obscure places you have never seen in your life. Still, you continue onwards with no particular direction nor destination. Just a single prayer you'll never let your mind finish.

Informal settlers are watching you, now you have fallen into steps as slow as a clock ticking, as you reach the hovel area infested with dark creatures and illegal magic. The road is now uneven and tenebrous. You walk onwards, head down and shoulders slumped with a simple wish: survive the night. Whatever happens, you hope you'll be able to face it wandless and destitute. All of your belongings are back at home, with _them_ , with _all of them_.

As you are consumed by your thoughts, your foot has caught into a stray cobblestone and you fall forward, unprepared to brace the impact. Then you land on something — _someone_ — firm and warm. Very warm. Oh, so warm you melt, unlike the cruel night, you can stay lying here forever. Except, you aren't lying down at all. You are standing slant on the ground, shoulders being hold secured by a calloused hand _you're more than familiar with_ to keep you upright.

"Blimey," the cloaked figure says your name calmly, "What are you doing here out in the right with nothing but your—Never mind that, come on now." He pulls his cloak, revealing Lupin's face, older and tired than the last time you saw him, but much healthier at least. His cloak is settled on you, and he tucks you in its residue warmth. He moves the umbrella so it could accommodate both of you. You shiver at the sudden absence of water.

"No," you moan, chest constricting painfully. This is too good to be true. He can't be here with you, in the midst of a boundless wreck. Whatever this miracle is, you can't believe this is happening right before your eyes.

"I'm sorry?" he asks, petrified that he might have done something wrong. But your hands shot out and grab his robes.

"I'm dead," is all you can say again and again into his chest. Your tears are incessant as he wraps an arm around your shoulder, muttering few reassuring words as he apparates with you away from Knockturn Alley.

As the world shifts back into place, you find yourself whispering, "I don't want you to go."

Barely audible, but he must have heard them, hasn't he?

You might have died and gone straight to the heavens. Because he is here, with you in his arms and he is so warm. 

An impossibility you will never believe can happen to you.

Except, it does.

And, you love him all the more because of that night.

You'll never know if he heard those words.

He saved you. He is the only thing that keeps you grounded.

* * *

Lupin was patrolling the streets of Knockturn Alley for Death Eater activities under the Order of the Phoenix.

You're vaguely familiar with the Order a year ago, overhearing a conversation from your parents' guests back then. Their rumors are true: Dumbledore has reformed the Order, and Remus Lupin is an original member. That makes you a vulnerable asset to the Order, having Death Eaters for parents. Although, when the Order interrogates you, the information about You-Know-Who's plans is blank in your mind.

Mrs. Weasley has fed you well, and you devour everything she prepared for you like a roguish dog, unapologetic for your own emotional cravings. If they will be squeezing the truth out of you, at least your stomach is full with your body and clothes dry.

"We are wasting time. They shouldn't be here!" ~~Professor~~ Mad-Eye Moody has grumbled throughout the meeting, along with different statements on why you should leave immediately.

You try your best to stare down only at the table, ignoring everyone's questionable gaze at you like they are shooting daggers through their eyes. The only member who's vocal enough for your defense is Sirius Black, much to your surprise. He winks at you and your cheeks grew hot.

“Thank you,” you whisper to him as the argument dies down from the dining table, and you’re left alone with Sirius and your unfinished chocolate pudding.

It was rather difficult to ignore Sirius because he reminds you so much about Lupin with his carefree ruggedness and benevolent smile. Every time you glance up to him from across the table, he has that handsome smile that reaches up to his eyes, but almost immediately you fix your gaze back at your pudding hard, thinking it’s the most fascinating thing you have ever encountered.

After a dreadfully awkward silence, Sirius clears his throat like a regal trumpet (Comical, if you were to be asked. It’s probably because he’s trying to humor you). “I believe no one has introduced me to you. Well,” he shrugs a shoulder and cocks his eyebrow,  
“Except for the Daily Prophet.”

You laugh out, which is more a surprise to yourself. Somehow, he made your mood shift as if no one had threatened you to be kicked out in the last ten minutes. Swirling the melted chocolate around your bowl, you say your name sheepishly.

“Sirius Black, and I’m quite enchanted Remus brought you here.”

Your heart lifted in joy, though you try hard not to show it. “I wish that goes the same for everybody else.”

“There’s one way to fix that,” he says.

“And, that is?” you ask very slowly.

“Join the Reject Club! Population two.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“It’s me and Moony,” Sirius chuckles as he points at him and at Remus, who’s now apparently leaning on the doorway with that smile forever ingrained in your memory.

Laughing again, you roll your eyes in good nature. “Fine, but I get to be the president.”

Slowly waggling his finger, Lupin interjects with a tut, “Co-president. I assumed this position with my co-founder.”

Your heart soars. “Deal.”

“Ha! It’s settled then,” Sirius replies triumphantly.

Then, you three exchange hands to shake upon it.

“Welcome to the club,” Lupin says with a grin. The touch of the lines on his skin against your hands sets your spirit on fire and ice.

You’ll always be.

* * *

You curse the day of mandating that underage use of magic is forbidden. You don’t know how long it took for you to find a Boggart in Grimmauld Place, and you cannot combat it with a spell considering that your wand is upstairs in the room you’re staying in and you’re underage.

The drawing room was the quietest place in twelve Grimmauld Place. Despite being severely dusty, it’s where people find you taking an afternoon nap in one of the chaise lounges until something conjured up memories from almost two years ago. Boggarts are safe, depending on what you fear the most. Although, yours is a scandal waiting to happen if the Order sees this.

You try to think hard of another fear because you cannot ask for help for it to go away. If you cry or shout, they’ll know you fear Lupin which would cause another problem on top of your presence with the Order. With a heavy heart, you’ll have to settle the Boggart on your own terms.

_Think of Mother and Father. Think of Bellatrix. Think of You-Know-Who._

You open your eyes. To no avail, it’s still Lupin.

The way it looks at you shatters your guard.

Your breathing becomes difficultly hollow like your chest has been dragged across uneven pavement. Leaning into its touch, you acquaint yourself with the warmness of its palm in hopes this is as good as the real thing. All of the reasons start to fade. The edges of wrong and right blur together. The weight of your world is crumbling down.

Knowing your hopelessness in romance such as this, you give in with helpless abandon. Selfish like that, you allow your body to melt, inhaling the faint scent of milk chocolate. His hold on you is as close to what you can recognize as _home_.

Boggart-Lupin leans in, mouth hovering temptingly close to your ear. Just as you're about to close your eyes and relish the moment, he whispers, " _Pitiful_."

Your eyes open wide. "What?" you stammer whilst taking a generous step back, as far away as possible from the Boggart. Your rationale clicks in and you reassess the situation. Glancing around you, you realize no one hasn't found you here.

Yet.

It tilts his head to the side with a menacing smirk. “ _Always so attached to me. Always so pitiful_.”

A chill runs up to your spine and you feel that you have been paralyzed. The world around you darkens, shatters, and disintegrates. You cannot move, cannot escape. There’s a whirlpool of thoughts, emotions, and everything in between crashing like an ebb and flow in your head.

Something dies inside of you as it is cornering you against the dark wall, bringing a warm hand to hold your chin gently, its eyes bore into yours deep and firm.

Then, your mind wanders for a bit, lost in a trance. Is this what his eyes look up close? Like he holds all the mystery in this universe in his deep, deep, and very sad eyes? You want to cry. You want to hold him against you and relive that stormy night. You want to scream. You want to take his hand with you and go running for the hills.

“Perhaps, there will be not another time with you?” you ask hoarsely. Your eyes misting in between syllables.

As you’re about to close your eyes and inhale its scent, a figure appears in the doorway.

“Remus?”

You feel faint. Without hesitating, you punch hard against Boggart-Lupin with your fist, sending it stumbling away from you and towards the center of the room.

“Mrs. Weasley,” you say, breathless. Your hands are not a part of your body anymore.

Boggart-Lupin snaps its neck towards Mrs. Weasley and _crack!_ It shifts into Ginny, lying pale and lifeless on the dusty old carpet.

She cries and falls on her knees. “No!” she moans, her hand quivering as she reaches for her wand.

The rest is a blur.

Both of you never spoke of this incident ever again.

* * *

In fears of facing another Boggart, you try to entertain yourself in Diagon Alley as much as possible despite having nothing to finance your distractions as did not even carry any coins in your haste to flee. It was difficult to say no to being able to enjoy the spoils that the Black Family fortune has to offer since Sirius was ridiculously stubborn in insisting that you should.

Your parents, too engrossed in their own affairs, failed to notice your absence which is consequentially an advantage for the Order. They were not surprised, not even doubtful, when you encountered them unexpectedly in the midst of the hustle and bustle in the alley. Luckily, they assumed that this was one of your trips to buy new supplies for school.

They offer to accompany you, and as you are about to refuse, you remember the Boggart and decide to go with them.

Mum and Dad have to run some _errands_ in Knocturn Alley, so you are left alone again. Luckily, you stumble upon Tonks outside Gringgotts and fill her in about your encounter with your parents. Both of you exchange a quick hug and a promise to owl each other soon.

Later that night, you find out that your House elf and the servants were not even bothered by your parents to inquire about your well-being when you were gone. As you lay asleep in your bed at night, you think about Grimmauld Place and Lupin’s hand on yours.

* * *

"... Extremely dangerous half-breeds," Umbridge says after a hideous cackle.

Beyond outraged, you are fuming in your seat, ready to tear apart the woman slowly layer by layer. How dare she! Lupin, by far, is the best Defence teacher Hogwarts has ever had, and almost everyone can attest to that.

Dean Thomas rebuts with the very thought in your head, only to be reprimanded by Umbridge, so you choose to take the reins of defending Lupin's honor yourself. You thrust your hand up, swift that feels it almost dislocated your shoulder from its socket.

Umbridge turns to you with a sickly-sweet curl of her lips. "Yes, and you are?"

You supply your surname curtly. "Professor Lupin was not dangerous at all!" you protest, earning a chorus of agreement in your class.

There's a flash of wickedness in Umbridge's eyes, something unspeakable that in a moment, you almost fear her. Almost.

"According to _Lupine Lawlessness: Why Lycanthropes Doesn't Deserve to Live_ , werewolves, even while in human form —"

The class' eyes zip between you and Umbridge throughout the verbal spar. All are visibly afraid of whatever outcome the scenario will result in.

"That book is rubbish, and so are his opinions," you cut in. "We've had classes with him. Nothing has happened bad. He is perfectly human like you and all of us! You haven't met him, do you? So why in Merlin's soggy knickers —"

" _Use... your... hand_. You have spoken out of turn!" she fumes in a shrill high-pitched voice you could've thrown up. "Ten points from Gryffindor! It appears that your judgment has been clouded by your favoritism."

You bow your head, not in shame, but to moderate your fury. ' _Favoritism?_ ' you thought venomously. You might be having a migraine because of her. ' _This daft banshee has no idea_.'

"If my sources are credible," she smiles again, dangerously sweet, "A classmate of yours has been attacked during the night of Remus Lupin's transformation, hasn't he?"

Out of instinct, you subtly glance at Ron, whose face is as red as his hair. Both of you know that it was Padfoot that almost tore Ron's leg off, but neither of you corrects Umbridge in fear of exposing Padfoot.

You look back at Umbridge. Now, she's leaning dangerously close to you. She is the pure embodiment of danger, considering you have met an ex-convicted criminal, an impersonator, and a werewolf. Everything she exudes is posing a potential threat to you, and you are in for a damn school year with her. Your jaw wrenches shut.

Noticing the lack of your reply, her smile grows bigger. "I thought so, too. As I was saying…"

The rest of the period is a blur.

* * *

It's an unspoken agreement that Lupin checks on you from time to time. The miraculous encounter in Knockturn Alley, for you, must be a blessing in disguise.

Seeing his own owl in the mornings has always caught you in a blissful trance, but not as touching whenever you read his letters giddily like a blushing first-year. His voice always echoes in your memory as though he himself is reading the letter for you.

The latest from him will forever be your favorite:

_How are you?_

_I hope your fifth-year is doing you great as you are._

_Harry told me of what happened during your first DADA class. As much as I am touched by your bravery to stand up against Umbridge on my behalf (Please extend Mr. Dean Thomas my regards, as well), I ask you to prevent further confrontations such as that in the future. It's not that **I** don't appreciate you putting up a fight with her for my benefit._

_What concerns me is your welfare._

_Dolores Umbridge is a powerful political figure, she will make you bend and break against your will, mind you that. You are treading in dangerous waters with her. Now promise me this: Do not provoke her anymore, no matter how often she **tries** to discredit me in class. I beg of you that you'll be wise enough not to rail against her._

_I hear that the Weasley twins are up to something. If it doesn't involve apparent death, I'll give you my full consent to join in their shenanigans. Just try not to be caught, please, as someone who has lived most of his life with two idiots, I beg of you. Or else I might disown you if I ever hear that you ended up a month's full of detention._

_On a lighter note, Tonks is begging me to ask you when's your next Hogsmeade visit that's free. She discovered new Muggle snacks that are delightfully scrumptious, and she wants you to taste-test them with her together._

_Keep her out of Zonko's though._

_I really hope you'll visit us in London soon, especially Snuffles — He's very proud you fought with a Ministry official, **unfortunately**._

_Above everything else, I'm quite curious about your career decision-making now you're in your fifth year. We have never tackled anything about your preferred profession. Whatever it is, I know the future holds all spectacular things for you._

_I know. I know what you'll tell me: **Perhaps next time, Professor**._

_Perhaps someday._

_That line of yours never gets old, doesn't it?_

_Cordially,_

_Your ~~favorite~~ professor_

* * *

On one of your afternoon tea conversations back in 1993, he notices that your passively hostile mood has drastically shifted.

Tea for today is cranberry hibiscus, its floral aroma drawing you in.

He asks, "Do you want to know what your Patronus looks like? You can join Harry in his Anti-Dementor lessons."

It is the height of the Dementors' presence in the school. People are becoming more fearful of their lives as anyone can be a victim of the ill-fated kiss brings. You, meanwhile, are wise enough not to put up a fight anymore. The memory of the dull ache in your wrist serves as a lesson.

Though his incandescent smile, warm and tempting, can melt you into a puddle even in the coldest winters, you shake your head with a laugh. "Perhaps next time, Professor."

_Perhaps_ is a word often underestimated.

Next time never comes at all.

Two years have passed when you discover your Patronus is a dire wolf through the extracurricular classes with Dumbledore's Army. A dire wolf, much to your surprise and dismay, with its long legs, sharp eyes, and thick fur. The first time you cast the Patronus charm, it is powerful enough to knock out your fellow casters' charms, even Harry's luminescent stag, who has been casting the charm since he was thirteen-years-old.

You are sure that the charm's potent is the product of the false happy memory you conjured in your mind. As much as you don't want to admit it, it's because you imagined an alternate ending wherein Lupin never left.

In your mind, he's healthier and happier than you've last seen him, and daresay, well-dressed. You know in your heart you imagine him with all the best things he this world has that he truly deserves, no matter how feral his _furry little problem_ can be.

That little secret that has turned into wishful thinking remains a secret you'll carry to the grave.

Everyone's eyes are on you as you dolefully gaze at the silver dire wolf, mimicking a howl as it arches towards the sky before disappearing. They are watching you closely, so close that you feel so small until Harry firmly averts their attention back to their own Patronuses.

"Nice one, mate," he congratulates with a small pat on your shoulder.

You want to cry, but you don't and won't break your vow. Never bent nor broken.

Instead, you let out a slow breath and practice again. The dire wolf's path of periwinkle light illuminates your face, creating an expression of wonder and surprise.

You think you're lucky that you refused Professor Lupin's offer. Whatever his reaction could have been upon seeing your Patronus, you wouldn't bear it at all.

* * *

The death of Sirius leaves you silent.

Your life aftermath passes by like waking up from an obscure memory. But after you witnessed Dumbledore’s body fell from the Astronomy Tower and the news of Lupin’s marriage, you ran away from home as soon as the year ends.

* * *

You are dead, but never feel so alive just to curse someone.

Morning has yet to come, and you pray it will come just to end everything. The night has ended your all, though the way your wand held limply is one indication that you are barely living. You are tight-roping on sustaining your life with a busted lip, dirt-streaked face, and bloodshot eyes.

The Great Hall is lined with drab and dreary stretchers occupied by witches and wizards who spent their last night in the school that started their first. Some whose faces are blurry in your memory are ethereal in death, with their serene expressions that may trick others that they are simply in deep slumber. The rest of the bodies are your nightmares waiting to happen, deeply ingrained in the darkest parts of your mind.

Among them is Remus Lupin, beside and one with his wife even in the afterlife.

Your feet lose its purpose as you stagger forward, steps unsure and the world has come to a stop. You try to breathe, try to grasp the reality that _Remus Lupin is dead_ , but your throat is numbed from the howls of your crying that make your lungs seem to be filled with smoke and stones. All at once, your body falls apart upon seeing the truth before your eyes, and it punches you deep, deep inside of you. It burrows skin-deep in your soul and makes all reason disintegrate in the wind.

McGonagall says your surname, quiet but urgent. She has a firm grip on both your elbows as she gently pulls you away, shielding you from the horror that is his death. "I'm sorry, although you need to understand: he's now in a better place."

"I don't want him to go, Professor," you whimper whilst shaking your head frantically, failing to escape from her arms. "Please, I don't want him to go. He needs to know that I—" The rest is swallowed by a quivering sob.

_He needs to know that you cared for him_.

"Let go, you have to let him go," she pleads, her arms holding you close to her chest.

"Professor," you breathe out, unsure to whom you are addressing. The ache in your heart is becoming too unbearable that you'll die because of it. Everything hurts too much. There is too much happening you have no clue what to do.

"He's dead. Remus is dead, and you have to let him go." She spins you around to look you in the eye, speaking your name. This time, her voice is softer — fragility you thought she doesn't have in her. "There are things better left unsaid. For now, Hogwarts needs you."

There are things better left unsaid.

" _Perhaps next time, Professor_ ," a memory of your voice echoes in your head.

"But, I don't want him to go," you repeat before your chest gives out and you finally break down. "There's so much I want to tell him. It's too much. It's all my fault."

Long before the sun rises, those are the four damned words of guilt you keep muttering to her. You cry in her arms until you are no longer alive, but an empty shell of bones and sorrow. Your anguished aria for him joins the song of the broken souls who have loved and lost that night.

* * *

Hogwarts Castle has collapsed, and you are sure a part of you also have. You walk out the Great Hall, wand raised on your crevice-like hold, mind falling apart, but eyes alert as someone shouts your name, loud and bold, throughout the courtyard. Craning your head towards the caller, you see amidst the hazy smoke and dull dusk your fellow Gryffindors. Ron and Neville heave an unconscious Fenrir Greyback on their shoulders towards you with his feet dragging purposely across the coarse ground to make sure he suffers more than he already has.

Pure anger boils and simmers throughout your body, from the pinpricking numb in your sprained ankle to the pounding heartbeat in your head. You want to tackle Greyback to the ground and beat him up to a pulp, but you deprive yourself of such violence. He won't have the satisfaction of violent death.

His death will be insignificant like the dirt under your shoes and the ashes of charred wood.

"He's all yours," Neville says with boldness unbecoming in him. Nevertheless, as his classmate, you're more than proud that he finally found the Gryffindor inside of him.

For this night, you allow yourself to be unforgiving and callous. The long-forgotten evil that has been lurking through your blood is thrumming loudly in your veins, and you let it. You know the incantation; you know how it works.

Your wand is aimed at his chest. Only what you need to do is to speak the words clearly, intentions malicious and unbent.

Instead, you cast hoarsely, " _Rennervate_!" With a well-practiced hand movement with your wand, you follow through a Full Body-Bind Curse.

Quick as his eyes fly wide open, Greyback's limbs tenses together and stretch out helplessly. He springs out from Ron's and Neville's shoulders before he falls down on his back. The two Gryffindors part away like they have been repelled by a Disarming Charm when you approach nearer.

Calm as ever, you tower over his frozen figure, though his inhumane glowering gaze can pop out from the eye sockets anytime moment now. "Show a little remorse, Greyback," you growl. "That might have saved you." 

Silently, you pull your wand back and thrust forward. A non-verbal spell vivid in your head, the curse flows out from your wand and hits Greyback square in the face, disintegrating his figure flesh by flesh, bone by bone until he is as worthless as the pile of ashes he is now.

Ron pales, seeing the ashes vanish when another wave of your wand. "You gave us a fright, mate! Thought you'd use a Cruciatus Curse and a Killing Curse afterward."

"I think I won't be able to sleep tonight," you confess without blinking.

* * *

The first Pensieve is dated after the first practical test of your third-year Defence Against the Dark Arts.

_"Minerva," Lupin calls his desk-neighbor. "I think I have done something wrong."_

_Eyes glued fixed on the latest edition of_ Transfiguration Today, _she asks him_ , "And, _what is that?"_

_"A student of yours must know that I'm... that I am different."_

_"Which among my students, may I ask?" This time, she glances at him as she closes the magazine and sets it down primly on her desk._

_Lupin mentions your name. This causes for McGonagall to frown, emphasizing the evidence of old age on her face._

_McGonagall asks in a low whisper, worried, "How did you find out?"_

_"Their Boggart is me. They fear me."_

_"Have you confirmed this with them? Did you do something to make them fear you?"_

_"I'm not so sure about that. Surely, they must have misinterpreted when I tried to help them earlier. Or, I suppose they had access to the registry files, maybe?"_

_McGonagall shakes her head with a sigh. With a swish of her wand, she hovers and unrolls a parchment, followed by a quill scribbling a simple paragraph in her elaborate penmanship. "I'll clarify that with her personally this evening."_

_"No!" Lupin raises his voice, almost diving from his seat. Then realizing his behavior, he lets out a breathy sigh and slouches on the seat._

_McGonagall gives him a pointed look — her silent disciplinary method you've recognized years of having her as a professor. The parchment and quill are lowered back on her desk, though she folds the parchment in a crosswise manner._

_"Sorry about that..." he apologizes. "I'm a little anxious, that's all. I'm quite sure that I'll be having death threats for breakfast from her parents."_

_"I believe that won't come true, Remus," McGonagall dissents confidently. "They are a tough shell to crack."_

Before the conversation changes, you pull out your head from the Pensieve. You refuse to be reminded of your parents who had escaped. Their whereabouts are none of your concern anymore. Wherever they may be, you hope that their guilt and shame are eating them alive in Azkaban.

Perhaps, some other time, you'll have the strength to finish viewing the memory.

* * *

You meet his son during the funeral.

It was a quiet ceremony.

Just a quiet ceremony and there was nothing more to describe.

It’s because you were technically not there.

You stand far away from the crowd. Your shadow is barely even noticeable. No one is expecting you to come, after all, so there’s no use gracing the ceremony with your presence. You refused to believe _he_ is dead. Maybe if you close your eyes, count one to ten, and breathe a little, all of this will be gone.

The emptiness slowly rolling deeper and deeper down to your bones and the wholeness of your body is evident in your tone. You want to sleep and never be awaken for a hundred years. You want to scour the library to know if it’s possible to set a Killing Curse on yourself. There are so many things you want to do, but at the same time, you want to be one with nothingness.

“So, this is reality,” a quiet elderly voice speaks beside you. “I have to bury my own daughter.” You didn’t have to spare a glance because you know to whom the voice belongs. Though, you turn to her and see her smiling softly at you. The sadness and loneliness in her eyes are evident, yet the motherly gaze never waned.

Held in her arms is a child with turquoise hair, watching you with timid curiosity.

“Hello, Teddy.” The greeting is barely audible, and you don’t feel alive enough to summon a genuine smile.

He doesn’t respond.

“I’m sorry we have to meet this way, Andromeda,” you apologize in the most stoic way you can manage. Pride never left your being, and it refuses to let anyone see you fall apart once again, especially when _he_ is the reason.

“None took.”

And, then silence.

Both of you watch as one by one, people give their own eulogies. Students, teachers, friends, and even past foes alike. Perhaps, one of them shares the same grief as you. But, have they also had their own failure of not allowing anyone to get too close to you just like you did? Does guilt consume them every night they close their eyes, when the moon is full, when they smell the tea, or even just merely thinking of home?

Were you really meant for loneliness?

No. You don’t allow yourself to cry. Not when this is all your fault. Now when this is your own failure. This is your guilt. These are the three things that should consume you because you had him all this time, yet you never acknowledged him.

You don’t allow yourself to cry because it makes everything a reality. It makes your fault, failure, and guilt spiral into life.

This is not you, but at the same time is all you.

You swallow hard.

And walked away just as the thunder inside of you started to roar.

You never knew this was the first time Teddy made his hair gold as the crest you had in your school robes.

* * *

The second Pensieve is dated the morning after your first tea with Lupin. You weren’t sure how you knew the exact date, though.

_"Why are you so patient for them?" McGonagall asks. "You have hundreds of students, but why them?"_

_Lupin smiles tiredly as if physically pained by her question, "It's my way of fixing my wrongdoings in the past. I never stopped my friends from bullying Severus completely."_

_"That's noble of you to do so, but always remember this: they are still human, not an avenue to better yourself."_

_"I know, I know, Professor McGonagall. I am simply preventing them from taking an inevitable path of darkness. Something that I haven't done as a prefect, but wasn't able to do so since I'm a coward."_

_"You are a myriad of extraordinary things, Remus. A coward isn't among them."_

_Lupin laughs, "You are too kind, Professor."_

_"And, you are too harsh on yourself."_

_"I just wanted to be good for something, at least once in my life."_

_"Then, we'll take extra precaution on your condition. For now, what it seems that I have to do is very clear: I have to inform Albus right after I have seen them. In the meantime," she waves her wand and levitates a silver tin in front of him. "Have a biscuit, Remus."_

_Hesitantly, Lupin takes a piece of Ginger Newt from the tin. "Are you trying to bargain me into something, Minnie?" His face cracks into a wide grin, similar to what you have seen during your first practical test with a Boggart._

_McGonagall's lips perk up a smile that's barely there._

* * *

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?” you ask, supposedly in a harsh manner that you usually address him but the uncharacteristic tremble in Malfoy’s tone caught you off guard.

His back is against you, so you cannot see what is he feeling right now. His words, though, provide you a glimpse of what’s on his mind.

“Pretend that it doesn’t bother you at all.”

A beat.

“I never did,” you answer honestly in spite of confusion. “The memory of what I did still haunts me.”

Malfoy glanced slightly, looking at you from the line of his nose. “Then, we’re not so different after all,” he says with a scoff. “Perhaps, next time.” He addresses you by your surname as a goodbye, and left, never turning his face at you.

You never understood the conversation. You don’t even know if both of you were talking about the same thing.

Nevertheless, that’s the last time you see Malfoy.

* * *

Years later, you find yourself sitting in front of the whole Wizengamot, your game set with confidence.

Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt is atop on a pedestal and asks, "If you are to accepted to work here in the Ministry, what change will bring about in the wizarding world? Please choose only one aspect."

You answer with utmost confidence, "I would like for the Ministry, particularly the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, to be more lenient to those magical creatures that they are and will be taking care of, starting with those suffering from lycanthropy. I want the prejudice of shunning them from society be diminished completely and thoroughly by letting us be the instrument in greatly improving their lives."

"Interesting insight, that is," Griselda Marchbanks, ever ancient in age, remarks, earning a few murmurs of affirmation from the other members and making you rejoice in silence.

"There are werewolves who are benevolent both in human form and if treated with Wolfsbane potion," you explain before turning to Shacklebolt, "Remus John Lupin was a prime example."

You remember him and still have loved him with all your being even in his passing, so you'll protect his kind to make amends to the moments you didn't make an effort to appreciate him. Even after everything else, you regret not expressing how much you are grateful for his presence, only to accept it when he's actually gone. Therefore, you are determined to protect everything that is him. You swore on his grave that you'll do everything that no more werewolf who died shunned by witches and wizards alike and had not experienced even a fraction of subsidy.

Shacklebolt remains stoic, never tearing his hawk-like stare away from you. He continues, "And, what quality should we possess to further that campaign of yours?"

"The ability to love," you reply with esteem because you know for damn sure it's the only thing you're ever sure of.

This makes the whole Wizengamot stir. Everyone turns to the Minister who leans forward and folds his hands in front of him. "What is with love? Why not grace under pressure, perseverance, or even honesty?"

"People often underestimate love. It stems out every best quality of everyone, even the non-magic ones. It encompasses everything true, good, and beautiful that life has to offer for us. Love enables us to do things that we don't know we can. Love can be one's saving grace. It is love that saved Harry Potter from Voldemort, thus including the wizarding world. Love has been our salvation. It is love that gathered us in Hogwarts _that one night_ to raise our wands and fight against the darkness."

"Do you believe in that?" someone asks you.

You don't know which one of the elderly wizards or witches (and probably won't care) who asked. A fire ignites every fiber in your being when you remember the benevolence of the man who helped you carry your textbooks almost a decade ago.

How enchanting your dire wolf Patronus was and will ever be, and the way your eyes dilated every time you summon it.

The relaxed, charming smile he had during your first practical test in Defence.

Fenrir Greyback's vulnerability upon realizing his end.

The Pensieve you were given after his death.

Teddy's turquoise blue hair metamorphosing into the shiniest golden color you've ever laid your eyes on whenever you visit him.

Above all the things that you love about him, you will never forget his kindness. The one that makes your bones shiver and your heart soft because there might be no other, you'll meet in life who would have all the patience of a praised saint as much as he did. Nonetheless your unbecoming indifference, he was there for you to teach you that vulnerability isn't weakness. He taught you to be human without him realizing that he had.

Because in one way or another, he knows that you have cared from the start, but too stubborn not to show it, and he has forgiven you again and again.

There are tears misting the corners of your eyes, but glad to be sad as you embrace your humanity. You discover a profound strength in your voice that keeps your feet anchored on the ground and head in the game, and there are never there before, not even once.

"Always."

**Author's Note:**

> Please support me on Ko-fi! heythereflyboy


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